by Nora Roberts
Once, a messenger had been hustled into the drawing room with a dispatch for Brigham. The doors had remained shut on the men for hours, and the rider had left again after dark. Whatever news he had brought had not been passed on to the women, a fact Serena bitterly resented.
In the kitchen, with the fire blazing, Serena dealt with the washing, her share and Gwen’s. She had exchanged her polishing duties for Gwen’s help with the laundry. It suited her. She preferred stamping on linen in the big tub to cramping her hands with beeswax.
With her skirts kilted up, she waded in water up to her calves. She enjoyed the energy it took, just as now she enjoyed the solitude of the kitchen. Mrs. Drummond was visiting a neighbor for an exchange of recipes and gossip. Malcolm was about his lessons, and their mother was supervising the preparation of a guest room.
Serena high-stepped like a pony in the cooling water, humming to herself to make the chore less monotonous and to keep the rhythm steady.
She wondered if Brigham had found Maggie MacDonald pretty and if he had kissed her hand the way he had once kissed her own.
Why should it matter? she asked herself, and began to stamp on the wash with more vigor. The man had barely spared her a glance since he had returned, and that was precisely the way she preferred it. He meant nothing to her, at least no more than any prickly thorn in her side.
She wished he would go away. Serena began to stamp harder, until water rose to the lip of the tub. She wished he would take his cool voice and hot eyes back to London—or to hell, for that matter. She wished he would fall in the river and catch a chill, then waste slowly, painfully, away. Better yet, she wished he would come in, fall on his knees and beg her for one smile.
Of course, she would sneer.
She wished—
She stopped wishing, stopped washing, stopped thinking, when he strode into the room. Brigham was brought up short, just as she was. He had thought she was busy upstairs with her mother, or in the dining hall with her sister. For days he had made a science out of avoiding her and the discomfort and pleasure being in her company brought him.
Now she was here, alone in the overheated kitchen, her face flushed with exercise, her hair escaping from its pins, and her skirts—Dear God.
Her legs were pale and wet and as shapely as any man could dream of. Before he controlled himself, he watched a drop of water slide down from her knee, along one smooth calf and into the tub. His breath hissed out softly between his teeth.
“Well, this is an unexpected and charming domestic scene.”
“You’ve no business in the kitchen, Lord Ashburn.”
“Your father persuaded me to make myself at home. As everyone is occupied, I thought it would be less trouble for me to come in and charm Mrs. Drummond out of some soup.”
“It’s there in the pot.” She indicated the steaming kettle. “Help yourself to it and take it away. I’ve got too much to do to wait on you.”
“So I see.” He recovered enough to walk closer. She smelled of soap and made his stomach quiver. “Madam, I assure you, I will never sleep quite the same again knowing how my bed linen was washed.”
She swallowed a chuckle and began to stamp in the water again. “It does the job, Sassenach, and does it well. Now, if you’ll be about your business, I’ll be about mine before the water goes cold.” Inspired perhaps by the devil, she brought her foot down hard and sent water splashing over his breeches. “Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord.” Unable to prevent it, she snickered.
Brigham looked down at his breeches and gave a wry shake of his head. “Perhaps you think these need washing, as well.”
“Toss them in,” she invited recklessly. “I’ve had a mind to plant my foot on your breeches before.”
“Have you?” He reached down toward the fastening and had the satisfaction of watching her eyes widen. Flushing to the roots of her hair, she stepped back and nearly tumbled down in the water.
“Brigham—”
He caught her before she could send herself and the washwater all over the kitchen. “There, I knew I would have it out of you again.”
He had an arm around her waist, another on her hair. The remaining pins plopped into the water and sunk. Serena stood, flustered, with her arms trapped between their bodies. “What?”
“My name,” he murmured. “Say it again.”
“I’ve no need to.” She moistened her lips, unwittingly stirring his blood all the more. “And you’ve no need to hold me. I have my balance now.”
“But I do have a need, Rena. I’ve told myself three days running that I cannot, I should not, I shall not touch you.” As he spoke he ran his hand up her back, down her hair, as if he could take as he chose. “But I have a need. The same one I see now in your eyes.”
She hated herself for lowering them. “You see nothing.”
“Everything,” he corrected, pressing a kiss to her hair. “Oh, God, I haven’t been able to get the scent of you out of my mind, the taste of you off my palate.”
“Stop.” If she could have freed her hands, she would have covered her ears with them. “I won’t listen.”
“Why?” The hand on her hair tightened so that she was forced to lift her head. “Because I’m English?”
“No. Yes. I don’t know.” Her voice rose, roughened by the beat of her pulse. “I only know I don’t want this. I don’t want to feel the way you make me feel.”
He felt a moment of triumph as he dragged her closer. “How do I make you feel, Rena?”
“Weak, afraid, angry. No, don’t,” she whispered as his lips hovered above hers. “Don’t kiss me.”
“Then kiss me.” He brushed his lips lightly over hers.
“I won’t.”
His lips curved as hers met them. “You already are.”
With a shuddering moan, she clutched at him, taking what her heart wanted and blocking out the warning in her head. He wasn’t for her, could never be for her, and yet when he held her it seemed as though he had always been for her.
His lips teased and retreated, seduced and tormented, until she was driven to take possession. Had she told him he made her feel weak? That was a lie, she thought dimly. She felt strong, incredibly strong, with energy coursing through her and pumping through her blood until it ran hot. A woman could fear weakness, but not power.
She wrapped her arms around him, let her head fall back and her lips part as she all but dared him to try to sap her strength.
It was like holding a lightning bolt, he thought. Full of fire and flash and dangerous power. One moment he was coaxing, the next he was bombarded with the heat that seemed to radiate from her. Murmuring her name, he lifted her from the water. He held her aloft for a moment, then slowly let her slide down his body until her feet hit the floor.
Then her lips were racing over his face. She slipped her hands beneath his coat to run them impatiently over the linen of his shirt. Her body was arched against his, begging to be touched. Her breasts yielded temptingly against his chest.
Knowing his only choices were to pull her to the floor and pleasure them both or stop, Brigham dragged himself away.
“Serena.” He took both of her hands and brought them to his lips. “We must talk.”
“Talk?” Thoughts couldn’t surface in a head that swam so thickly.
“Yes, and soon, before I abuse the trust of your father and my friend more than I already have.”
She stared at him a moment, and then her mind began to clear. Pulling her hands away, she pressed them to her cheeks. How could she have thrown herself at him in that way? “I don’t want to talk, I want you to go away.”
“Want or not, we will talk.” He grabbed her hands again before she could turn away. “Serena, we can’t pretend that something doesn’t happen between us every time we’re together. I may not want this any more than you, but I’m not fool enough to say it doesn’t exist.”
“It will pass,” she said, desperate to believe it. “Desires come, and they go.”
&nbs
p; He lifted a brow. “Such cool and worldly talk from a woman in bare feet.”
“Oh, leave me be, will you?” She shoved at him. “I was fine and happy before you came here. I’ll be fine and happy when you leave.”
“The hell you will.” He pulled her against him again. “If I were to leave now, you’d weep.”
Pride stiffened her spine. “I’ll never shed a tear over you. Why should I? You’re not the first man I’ve kissed, and you won’t be the last.”
His eyes narrowed to slits, darkened like onyx. “You live dangerously, Serena.”
“I live as I please. Now let me go.”
“So I’m not the first you’ve kissed,” he murmured. He had a desperate and vivid desire to know the names and faces of each one so he could murder them. “Tell me, did the others make you tremble?” He kissed her again, hard enough to make her gasp. “Did they make your skin go hot and soft?” His mouth came to hers again, and this time she could do nothing but sigh against his lips and let him have his way. “Did you look at them the way you look at me now?” he demanded. “With your eyes dark and clouded?”
She clutched at his shoulders, almost afraid she would dissolve and slide through his hands. “Brigham—”
“Did you?” he demanded, his eyes dark and bright.
Her head was reeling, and she shook it. “No.”
“Serena, I’ve finished in—” Gwen pushed open the door, then stood, her mouth forming a surprised O as she stared at her sister caught in a close embrace with their guest. Serena stood on the toes of her bare feet, gripping Brigham’s beautiful coat. And he—Gwen’s young imagination caused her blush to deepen.
“I beg your pardon,” she managed, and continued to stand, looking from one to the other without the least idea what to do.
“Gwen.” With more force than dignity, Serena pulled out of Brigham’s arms. “Lord Ashburn was just—”
“Kissing your sister,” he finished coolly.
“Oh.” Gwen watched Serena send Brigham a furious glance. “I do beg your pardon,” she repeated, wondering if it would be best to go or stay.
Amused, Brigham watched Gwen wrestle with propriety while Serena whirled to the cupboard and rattled crockery. “There’s no need to beg anyone’s pardon,” she said testily. “Lord Ashburn wanted soup.”
“So I did, but as it happens I’ve had all my appetite can handle at the moment. If you ladies will excuse me …” He strolled out, wincing only slightly as a bowl hit the floor.
Chapter 7
“King Louis will not intervene.” Brigham stood in front of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back. Though his eyes were calm and his stance relaxed, his voice was grim. “It becomes less and less likely as time passes that he will support the Prince with gold or with men.”
Coll tossed the letter that had come earlier by messenger onto a table and rose to pace. Unlike Brigham’s, his impatience needed room and movement. “A year ago, Louis was more than ready to lend support. Ready? Damn, he was eager to lend it.”
“A year ago,” Brigham pointed out. “Louis thought Charles might be of use to him. Since the French invasion was abandoned last March, the Prince is largely ignored by the French court.”
“Then we’ll do without the French.” Coll turned to glare first at Brigham, then at his father. “The Highlanders will fight for the Stuarts.”
“Aye,” Ian agreed. “But how many?” He held up a hand to prevent his son from launching into a passionate speech. “My mind and my heart remain unchanged. When the time comes, the MacGregors fight for the rightful king. But it’s unity we need, as well as numbers. To win, the clans must fight as one.”
“As we have fought before,” Coll said with a slap of his fist. “And will again.”
“Would that were true.” Ian’s voice was quiet, one of reason and regret. And of age, he thought with an inward sigh. Growing old was the damnedest thing. “We can’t pretend that every chief in Scotland stands behind the true king or will rally his clan for the Prince. How many, Brig, will stand against us in the government army?”
Brigham picked up the letter from the table and, after glancing at it once more, tossed it into the fire. “I expect word from my contacts in London any day.”
“How much longer do we wait?” Coll took his seat again to stare into the fire. “How many more months, how many more years do we only sit and talk while the elector grows fat on the throne?”
“I think the time of rebellion comes sooner than you might think,” Brigham murmured. “Sooner than we might be prepared for. The Prince is impatient.”
“The Highland chiefs will meet again.” Ian drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. Like any wise general, he preferred to plan his war before raising his sword. “Care must be taken to keep such meetings from raising the suspicions of the Black Watch.”
Coll swore roundly at the mention of the Highlanders recruited by the English to maintain order in Scotland.
“Another hunting party?” Brigham asked.
“I had in mind something a bit different.” At the sound of approaching carriage wheels, Ian smiled and tapped out his pipe. “A ball, my lads. It’s time we did a spot of entertaining. And the lass who comes visiting is, I believe, a very pretty reason for dusting away cobwebs.”
Brigham twitched the curtains aside in time to see Serena dash down the steps toward the waiting carriage. A dark-haired girl descended and launched herself into Serena’s arms. “Maggie MacDonald.”
“Aye. She’s of marriageable age, as is my own first daughter.” He set his gaze on Brigham’s back a moment. A man would have to be blind, he thought, not to see that there was a tune playing between his young guest and his daughter. “Nothing more reasonable than to hold a ball to introduce them to a few suitable young bucks.”
Fighting back annoyance, Brigham let the curtain fall into place. He didn’t want to look at Serena now, with the sun falling on her face and her eyes dark with laughter. “It will do well enough, I suppose.”
Coll only scowled at the toe of his boot. “I don’t care for it. Bringing another giggling female into the house now. Damned if I’m going to find myself cornered into taking her for sedate rides and listening to talk of the latest bonnets when we should be polishing our swords.”
Ian merely rose to open the salon doors. “I’ve no doubt that Rena and Gwen will entertain her well enough without you.” The moment the doors were opened, women’s voices and laughter poured through. Coll grumbled and stayed stubbornly in his seat. “There’s the lass.” Ian’s voice rumbled to the ceiling. “Come here and give your Uncle Ian a kiss.”
Smiling, Maggie danced across the hall. She laughed when he lifted her off her feet, but Fiona scolded him. “The girl’s already been bumped enough on the journey. Go in and warm yourself by the fire, Maggie.”
With her arm still tucked in Ian’s, Maggie stepped into the room.
Manners prevented Coll from scowling, and he began to rise reluctantly. Then, manners or not, his mouth fell open. She still looked hardly bigger than a doll beside his broad-shouldered father, but the skinny, smudge-faced pest he remembered had miraculously been replaced by a slender vision in dark blue velvet. Her hair, dark as midnight, fell in curls beneath a hat that framed her face. Had her eyes always been that beautiful, like the loch at twilight? He wondered as he managed to close his mouth. Had her skin always looked like fresh cream?
Maggie smiled at him. Then, because she had planned her moves carefully during the journey, she turned to curtsy to Brigham. “Lord Ashburn.”
“It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss MacDonald.” He took her offered hand and brushed his lips over her fingers. Behind Ian, Serena’s breath came out in a quiet hiss. “I trust your journey wasn’t too taxing.”
“Not at all.”
Because Maggie’s hand was still in Brigham’s, Serena couldn’t prevent herself from stepping forward. “You remember Coll, don’t you, Maggie?” With a little more force than was neces
sary, she pulled Maggie away from Brigham and toward her brother.
“Of course I do.” Maggie had practiced a friendly, almost impersonal smile in front of her mirror night after night in preparation for this first meeting. Though her heart was pounding, she put her practiced smile to use now. He was even more handsome than she remembered; taller, broader, even more exciting. Growing up had taken so long, but now, at this moment, it seemed worth it. “I’m happy to see you again, Coll. I hope your wound is healed.”
“Wound?” He took her hand, feeling unbearably clumsy.
“Your father explained that you were wounded on the way from London.” Her voice was mild as a spring morning. She wondered he couldn’t hear the furious thundering of her heart. “I trust you’ve recovered?”
“It was nothing.”
“I’m persuaded it was a great deal more than nothing, but it’s good to see you up and about again.” Because she was afraid that if her hand stayed in his another moment she would faint with delight, Maggie drew herself away and twirled around. There was a blush in her cheeks now that she prayed everyone would take for excitement from the journey. “It’s wonderful to be here again. I can’t thank you enough, Uncle Ian, Aunt Fiona, for asking me to come.”
Refreshments were brought in, seats were taken. Rather than making the excuses he had prepared, Coll found himself jockeying for the chair nearest Maggie. Brigham took advantage of the situation and leaned close to Serena as he passed a plate of cakes.
“Will you try one of these, Miss MacGregor?” he asked. Then, in a quiet voice that was covered by the conversation: “You’ve been avoiding me, Rena.”
“That’s ridiculous.” She took a cake and wondered how she had been maneuvered to the fringes of the party with him.
“I agree completely. Avoiding me is ridiculous.”
Her cup rattled in its saucer. “You flatter yourself, Sassenach.”
“It’s gratifying to see I make you nervous,” he said quietly, then turned and continued in a normal tone, “Gwen, I must tell you how charming you look in pink.”